


Believe Me This One Time

by The_Bentley



Series: Cold Open Fictions [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blood and Torture, Denial of Feelings, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Development of Lustful Feelings, Episode: s01e03 Hard Times, He'll get over it, I'm Sorry Crowley, In Trouble with the Head Office, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, References to Shakespeare, Slow Burn, The Arrangement (Good Omens), Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-07-31 18:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20119804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Bentley/pseuds/The_Bentley
Summary: Aziraphale tempts a clan leader to steal cattle and is called in by Gabriel who hears rumors of a cattle rustling.  Hastur tortures Crowley after hearing he's made "Hamlet" successful.  Despite blood, pain and lectures, neither one of them is ready to give up on the Arrangement.  Crowley also finds himself wanting badly to get Aziraphale in his bed.





	1. Cattle in Edinburgh

**Author's Note:**

> Same premise as the rest of the series -- A little writing of three thousand-word chapters exploring what happened after the Crowley and Aziraphale vignettes in the miniseries episode "Hard Times." Ok, four chapters this time because I was inspired to redo the first one, so here is an alternative first chapter, but they don't contradict each other so it can be woven into the story if you want to read it that way.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The man was very informal and that knife he played with made Aziraphale rather anxious. He told himself to breathe, everything would go perfectly. He was not going to end up with a dagger in his chest because he ticked off some laird._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Edinburgh, 1601_

Aziraphale sat on a horse riding towards the clan leader’s estate regretting that he allowed Crowley to talk him into that coin toss. He was an angel. He shouldn’t be tempting anyone into doing anything. He didn’t even know what he was doing. Never mind. He knew _exactly_ what he was doing. He was pretending to be a demon for a day or two, _that’s_ what he was doing. 

This was a nightmare. Usually covering for Crowley meant going across town to whisper in someone’s ear to go do some temptingly frivolous thing or another that was mere mischief, not inciting a raid of someone’s cattle. On the bright side, Crowley owed him and _Hamlet _would be successful. Plus, he had no idea the tartan patterns up here were so lovely.

He was currently swathed in one of light beiges and blues pretending he was a small landowner under the local clan leader who was currently in a feud with the neighboring clan leader. The neighbor was moving cattle soon to better pastures. It shouldn’t be too hard to convince him to swipe a few in revenge. They were very nice purebred highland cattle.

All he had to do was make the mental suggestion that he was a subject of the clan leader, then once that suggestion took hold, tell the clan leader about the moving of the neighbor’s cattle. He should take the bait easily. Aziraphale wouldn’t get out of feeling guilty about the whole thing so effortlessly, though. How did Crowley do this?

Finally he reached his destination and found himself waiting for an audience with the clan leader himself. His nerves reached levels he didn’t even know were possible. Butterflies filled his stomach and he started to sweat a bit. Luckily it was a bit stuffy in the antechamber, so the damp curls sticking to his temples could be easily dismissed, but how did humans cope with these bodies? He seemed to become more integrated with his with each passing year, but sometimes it made him awfully uncomfortable to think about that.

Thankfully he hadn’t picked up too many human habits. He still had never tried out sleep and he enjoyed food and drink on his own whim, not his stomach’s, but all the same, he shouldn’t sweat or feel the physical manifestations of nerves. This was ridiculous.

A handful of men exited into the antechamber, the leader of the group looking disgruntled while the rest of the men with him appeared dejected like they were expecting a rough ride home with their leader in a bad mood. One of them looked at Aziraphale, who stood out with his head of white blond hair among browns and a sprinkling of reds.

“Better have some good news. The laird’s not in the best of moods.”

Aziraphale just swallowed hard, nodding in reply.

Well, that was just great. At least he had confidence in his ability to make a suggestion stick in the mind of even the most stubborn of humans. He was apparently really going to need it this time around, he thought as he straightened his plaid while waiting for the name he was using to be called.

Finally it was his turn. He stood up, mentally pulled together his composure and entered the clan leader’s audience chamber hoping he’d find the offer Aziraphale was making tempting enough to act upon.

Making the proper obeisance, Aziraphale carefully sent forth the idea that he was a minor landowner from the far northern border of this leader’s sphere of influence where few traveled down from unless they had an especially serious complaint. The clan leader hesitated, seeming to not recognize him despite Aziraphale’s suggestion. The angel pushed the suggestion into the man’s mind a bit further. It finally took hold.

“Uh yes, Fell, isn’t it? Unusual name.” The man’s eyes narrowed and Aziraphale noticed he was fingering a sharp dagger.

Aziraphale nodded with a nervous smile on his face. “Yes, yes. Some of us get stuck with the uncommon names.”

“What can I do for you?” 

The man was very informal and that knife he played with made Aziraphale rather anxious. He told himself to breathe, everything would go perfectly. He was not going to end up with a dagger in his chest because he ticked off some laird. 

“My… my lord, it seems that McLeod is moving his cattle to better pastures downstream in four days time,” Aziraphale got the information out without too much of a stammer. “This could be the chance to get revenge for the cows he stole from Donaldson. They’re very nice cattle. Would very much improve the clan’s breeding stock.”

The clan leader leaned forward in his chair, his eyes taking on a shrewd calculating look. Aziraphale stopped himself from taking steps backward as he twirled that dagger he was casually holding.

“Is that so? Hmmm. That’s enough time to get up there with a raiding party. Liberate a few of his heifers.” The man smiled hugely. Maybe this tempting thing was easier than Aziraphale thought.

“Yes, it is.”

“Very tempting. That bastard took a bunch of Donaldson’s prize cows.”

“I bet Donaldson wouldn’t mind a few purebred highland cattle as compensation,” said Aziraphale earnestly. 

“I don’t think he would. This news is most welcome. You shall be rewarded with some cattle of your own if we’re successful.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Aziraphale bowed low in mock appreciation. Bait taken. His job was finished. Now to get out of here.

“Time to start planning a raid.” The leader clapped his hands together. “Will you be joining us?”

Aziraphale politely begged off with the excuse that he really couldn’t leave his farm unattended with minimal security for so long. Understanding that, the clan leader wished him well, sending him off. Deed done, he exhaled in relief as he left the estate, heading out to concentrate on his own work. As he rode, he hoped that God would forgive him for doing the demon’s work.


	2. Cattle In Edinburgh -- Alternate Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternative version of Chapter One I just wrote up thanks to a comment. Aziraphale is the one to get called to Head Office to explain some cattle rustling. Now he has to try to pull on over on Gabriel.
> 
> Ashenaiulyk, this one's because of you. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not beta'ed. I just decided to throw it out there and see what happens.
> 
> _Edinburgh, 1601_

Heaven wasn’t a bureaucracy yet. It was simply a city in the clouds, more traditional looking than in later decades. Aziraphale waited at a table in a room modeled after the inns found in England and other European countries at the time, _sans _ bar or any other structure having to do with eating or drinking. Gabriel liked the idea for whatever reason. Aziraphale didn’t quite understand since the Archangel neither ate nor drank, nor was that fond of Earth. 

It didn’t take long for Gabriel in his bespoke tunic and breeches, followed by his entourage of sycophants, to march in looking all business. He took in Aziraphale’s frilly collar with a bit of a disdainful look while the Principality tried not to feel like a speck of dirt Gabriel was examining on the bottom of his shoe. The Archangel could intimidate.

“So what’s this I hear about you being involved in cattle rustling?” Gabriel asked in no-nonsense tones.

“Cattle rustling?” Aziraphale did his best to look confused. “Whatever are you talking about? That sounds more like the demon Crowley’s doing.”

Michael handed Gabriel some pieces of parchment. Gabriel looked them over before shoving them in Aziraphale’s direction. “Reports were he was supposed to be there but wasn’t.”

Aziraphale inwardly squirmed. Now what? They were close to catching him. He smiled nervously, but since that was typical when he was around his superiors, nobody saw anything out of the ordinary with that. He just had to play this right. Which wasn’t easy for someone who got so flustered at times and couldn’t think fast on his feet when he was.

“My agents didn’t hear anything about problems in the area. I… I was busy doing my blessings and that miracle you asked for. It’s right here in my reports.” He tapped the sheets of parchment he had setting on the table in front of him. He had written them up in anticipation of reporting, but it seemed like Gabriel had decided he was just going to ignore Aziraphale’s hard work this time around.

“Well, why don’t you tell me what’s going on with the cattle rustling rumors? Uriel here heard them from an angel on temporary assignment in the north of…. whatever that country is you were in. Doesn’t matter.” He turned towards Uriel with extending his arm a moment before clasping his hands in front of him again in his usual pose. “Good job on that Uriel. Dedication like that is to be commended.”

“Thank you.” Uriel managed to smile a glowing, favour-currying smile while looking smugly in Aziraphale’s direction. She never liked him and would have been very happy to see him reprimanded.

“I made a quick unscheduled stop up north to help the family of the bride I blessed with some cattle they were moving. I got word that it was going to rain enough to flood the area,” Aziraphale replied primly, allowing a bit of insult to creep in. “Some of those cattle were dowry. It would have ruined the alliance between the families if anything was to happen.”

Oh my. He had just _lied_. To Gabriel’s face. To all their faces. In Heaven in front of God and everyone, quite literally. With a silver tongue of the variety that would have been quite at home in Crowley’s mouth. 

Well, there was an inappropriate thought. It sounded like he wanted to kiss Crowley in a very intimate way. It took all his willpower to keep the embarrassment he was feeling at such a thought from manifesting itself physically in the form of flushed skin. He sucked in a breath and held it, banishing such ideas from his head. Indeed!

Gabriel was holding his gaze with a piercing stare from those unsettling violet eyes of his. The corners of his mouth were slightly downturned and his handsome face looked contemplative. Aziraphale tried to look nonchalant about the whole deal as if he lied to Archangels all the time. Luckily for him his body decided not to break out into a cold sweat.

“So there was no rustling?” asked the Archangel. He tapped the tabletop with his fingers a bit impatiently.

“I don’t know. I just talked to the laird who’s the bride’s cousin and told him it might be dangerous to move cattle right now. Storms were coming out of the west that were flooding all they rained on,” said Aziraphale airily as if lying was the easiest thing he had ever done. 

He felt Uriel’s gaze on him. Sandalphon squinted a bit as if he didn’t understand, but that was normal. Michael looked bored, but she always did when it didn’t involve fighting.

Gabriel looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook a finger at Aziraphale. “Keep an eye on that demon. I have a feeling he’s sneaking past us and we can’t let him wile unchecked. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Gabriel gave one of his very fake winning smiles. “Thank you for coming in. I’ll be sure to read your report when I have time.”

Aziraphale returned as quickly as possible to the small house he rented on the edge of the fashionable area of London. It was up to his standards without being too ostentatious. Gabriel was on a streak about being humble.

He winded his way through his numerous bookshelves to the liquor cabinet where he kept the good stuff. Aziraphale downed several glasses of brandy, wondering how he managed to pull off those lies. He’d been hanging around Crowley too long.

Talking about Crowley, where did those thoughts about kissing him come from? Aziraphale figured it was probably nerves and his poorly worded thoughts about silver tongues. Nothing worth worrying over. Crowley was the Enemy. A bit of a friend, too, but still not a lustful or romantic interest. 

Well, the deed was done, the report made and he managed to get one by Gabriel, which actually felt good. He wasn’t going to admit it to Crowley, but maybe there was something to this Arrangement.


	3. Hamlet in London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crowley yelped as ribs broke, the shooting pain making it hard to breathe. Tears filled his eyes, but he kept his composure. He was not going to shed them. “Have you seen it?”_
> 
> _Hastur sneered striking Crowley across the face. “Why would I bother with human entertainment?”_

Crowley covertly snapped his fingers at a couple of passersby who just happened to be talking about Shakespeare’s new play as he strolled down the street towards his favorite inn. Those two strangers would now not only be interested in going to see _Hamlet_, but spreading around what a good play it was. The magic would carry on through their message, inspiring others to go see the play and sing its praises to the people they met as well.

The cascading effect was nice. He’d come across several who were discussing Shakespeare – either just in general or talking about what a flop the new play was – upon whom he used his influence to change their minds about the newest tragedy. If his rough calculations were correct, the seats in the Globe would be full before Aziraphale got back from Scotland. He refrained from patting himself on the back for a job well done.

He arrived at the inn, sliding into a chair at an empty table where he was noticed by the serving wench, who knew him as one of their best customers. She made eye contact with him and nodded, a signal that she’d soon bring him a pint of the ale he found mostly drinkable. He actually hated the stuff, but there was so much good tempting to be done at inns, he tolerated the bitter alcohol.

“Hello, Crowley,” drawled an unwelcome familiar voice across from him. “What the devil have you been up to?”

It was Hastur, dressed in an older, dirtier tunic and hose that made him appear to be a beggar. Crowley looked innocently at him. “Just performing a few demonic miracles. Why is this a problem?”

Leaning back on two legs in his chair, Crowley balanced it against the wall behind him. Bad move because Hastur changed their world with the click of his fingers. Crowley’s chair fell over, dumping him over backwards where he hit his head soundly on the floor. He saw stars and not in a good way.

Hastur was swiftly standing over him in this room in Hell as Crowley struggled to get up off the hot stone floor. The lesser demon was pulled upright by the Duke who had grabbed him by the neck, slamming him roughly against the wall. Crowley bit his tongue hard, feeling blood flow into his mouth. He spat some out as Hastur smiled cruelly at him.

“Always wanted to do that.” Hastur was nose to nose with Crowley, gleeful about his chance to torture him. “What are you really up to?”

Crowley’s glasses had been knocked off in his fall. Fear shown in his serpentine eyes as he focused on the blade that appeared in Hastur’s hand. It cut deep into Crowley’s cheek, bringing forth a flow of blood along with a tortured scream. 

“Satan’s work, of course. What do you think I’m up to?”

Hastur wasn’t buying it. With a swift move, he cut off a large chunk of his subordinate’s stylish hair, tossing it on the floor. Crowley growled at him, muttering what sounded a lot like “bastard.” It earned him a swift punch in the gut, dropping him.

“How’s a play remotely bringing any souls closer to Satan?” Hastur delivered the question with a hard kick, delighting in the crunch he heard.

Crowley yelped as ribs broke, the shooting pain making it hard to breathe. Tears filled his eyes, but he kept his composure. He was not going to shed them. “Have you seen it?”

Hastur sneered striking Crowley across the face. “Why would I bother with human entertainment?”

“Do you know what a tragedy is?” Crowley was panting with pain, despite his attempt to not breathe. 

“You’d better be for explaining it rather quickly.” The knife was in his face again, threatening to cut him. 

“The play’s depressing as fuck,” Crowley screamed again as the blade was driven deep into his palm. “I’m not doing Shakespeare any favors. Really, I’m not!”

Blood dripped on to his puffy breeches, seeping into the fine velvet. Hastur relented a moment, allowing him some time to explain.

“This play’s full of all kinds of evil stuff. Witches, king’s brother poisoning him to get the throne, marrying one’s widowed sister-in-law, women going mad, a prince who’s acting crazy, ghosts wanting revenge. There’s lots of angst, death, stuff like that.”

“It sounds like fun. How’s that going to tarnish someone’s soul?” demanded the Duke, the blood-covered knife raised again.

“Yes, it’s great entertainment for our lot, I’ll give you that,” Crowley quickly replied. “But humans like _funny_ plays. Those make them happy. They feel like shit when they go to tragedies. Nobody wants to leave a play in a bad mood. Get it?”

“No.”

Crowley quietly blessed under his breath wishing the high-ranking members of Hell’s legions actually came with a set of brains. He hated having to connect the dots for them. “Humans leave the play in bad moods then take those bad moods out on others, tarnishing a lot of souls in the process,” he explained.

“What’s wrong with working on one soul at a time?”

“There are tons of people in London alone. Picking at one soul at a time isn’t going to cut it anymore. I’m giving a bit of tarnish to many souls at one time. If I do it enough, we’ll gain souls for Hell.”

Hastur just stared at him as if he suggested they give up tempting altogether. “That’s a ridiculous idea, Crowley. The Powers That Be aren’t going to be happy with you.”

“Just tell them it's an experiment and if it doesn’t work, I’ll go back to the old ways.” 

“It’s your funeral.”

Crowley was suddenly back in his own house, laying on the floor, whimpering. Aziraphale was _not_ going to find out about this. There was too much good to be had with the Arrangement and this was just a fluke Hastur found out about _Hamlet_. He regained his composure, setting himself to healing his wounds.


	4. Some Truths You Keep Hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He looked into those blue eyes, wanting to know so badly if Aziraphale hid inside his head the same kind of feelings for him. It was wishful thinking. The angel only saw black and white; he wouldn’t want to sleep with a demon._
> 
> _“How was Scotland?” he managed to say, feeling a pang of regret. “The tempting?”_
> 
> Crowley pines for Aziraphale, but Aziraphale still isn't to that point in his relationship with Crowley.

“Crowley, Wednesdays are fish days, decreed by law. You can’t be eating beef.”

Crowley had escorted Aziraphale from the front door of his lavish home to the dining room where a spread of cold roast beef, cheeses, breads and fruits was set out for lunch with the angel. The demon seemed unconcerned as he gestured for Aziraphale to sit. He took a seat opposite him, grabbed a plate, filling it.

“It’s not my job to be law-abiding, you know. I let the servants have the day off, so no hot food. They're so nosy they’d be at door listening to every word we said." He poured some wine from the bottle sitting beside the food. “It’s not like you have to eat it. There’s plenty of other stuff here for you munch on. And you wonder why I don’t entertain.”

Aziraphale gave his best martyred look, helping himself to everything but the beef. “I see _Hamlet_ is a success. Thank you for doing that.” 

He gave the demon such a bright, appreciative smile that it was Crowley’s turn to roll his eyes. “Don’t mention it. I almost got in trouble for it you know. My lot doesn’t send nicely-worded correspondence when they’re upset. They send Hastur.”

He absentmindedly rubbed one palm that had a faint, nearly healed scar.

“What happened?”

“He shows up looking like some beggar wanting to know why I’m making a play popular,” Crowley said, leaving out the pierced hand, severe cuts and broken ribs he sustained at Hastur’s mercies. “I told him the play’s depressing and people would leave it feeling miserable. Miserable people take it out on others. Those people spread it around. It keeps going and suddenly you have a city full of souls with a bit more tarnish.”

“Good improvisation. I would hate to hear that you were punished for doing me a favor.” Aziraphale popped a grape in his mouth. Crowley watched his lips, wishing he could insert his tongue between them. “Thank you again.”

“Quit saying that,” grumbled the demon, although he wasn’t upset. He was too busy thinking about how Aziraphale would react if he were to trace his fingers down that doublet to insert his hand into those billowy breeches of his. What would he find there? “It’s actually a good idea despite sounding like complete excrement. Consider it, angel. We’re outnumbered by the humans anymore. We have to think big now. I’m going to start experimenting with it. Picking at one soul at a time over years is boring.”

He licked his lips as he looked at the angel across from him. Crowley was finding the slightly uncomfortable attitude Aziraphale was exhibiting to be extremely attractive. There were some days he wished he could take Aziraphale to his bed. Oh, what he could teach him!

Aziraphale snorted. “Crowley, you’ve never picked at one soul at a time. You’ve done your best to not do anything unless you absolutely have to as long as I’ve known you.” 

“’Oh, you have _no _idea, angel,” purred Crowley in reply while thoughts of removing that ruff and much, much more from Aziraphale raced through his mind. 

He imagined sensuously unbuttoning that tunic, sliding it off his shoulders with one hand, while the other wandered down to areas that the angel probably had never used before. What he could do if he got into those breeches! He thanked the stars above that not only were his own breeches voluminous, but he was seated as well. It wasn’t only his mind responding to his raging lust.

He looked into those blue eyes, wanting to know so badly if Aziraphale hid inside his head the same kind of feelings for him. It was wishful thinking. The angel only saw black and white; he wouldn’t want to sleep with a demon. 

“How was Scotland?” he managed to say, feeling pangs of regret. “The tempting?”

“Went fine. The clan leader was an informal fellow. I wasn’t quite used to that, I admit,” Aziraphale replied. “But I just mentally suggested I was a minor landowner, told him his rival was moving his herds so he decided rather quickly to raid them the day of the move. It was nerve wracking. You’ve always asked me to do minor stuff.”

“Keep it up. You’ll get used it to.”

“But that’s the trouble, Crowley. I don’t _want_ to get used to it.” 

“Then don’t,” Crowley replied testily. “But I hope you understand exactly how this arrangement benefits us both. I now owe you a favor. The next time we have assignments in the same area, I’m the one who’s going to be doing them while you enjoy a day off.”

“But…”

“Keep that angelic guilt to yourself. I’ll say it again… our Head Offices don’t care how the work gets done, just that it does. Nobody has to know what’s actually going on but us, right?”

“Right,” replied Aziraphale grudgingly. Crowley made perfectly logical sense, but still it was hard to not feel like he was doing something wrong. It was cheating even if nobody knew. He decided maybe more wine would soothe away the guilt that suddenly manifested.

“You’re going to have to head down to the Globe to see the crowds. It’s been packed house every performance for the last two nights. I did good, if I might say so myself,” bragged Crowley between bites of forbidden roast beef.

“If you were an angel, I’d be telling you to watch that conceit.”

“But I’m not, so I can have all the conceit I want. Isn’t it glorious?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” responded the angel. “It makes you insufferable sometimes. Want to join me tonight at the Globe?”

“Aziraphale, you know I only like the funny ones,” replied Crowley.

But maybe this time he would go. In the crowded theatre of standing room only, he’d necessarily have to be in very close proximity to Aziraphale. Maybe they would even have to touch. What an absolutely delicious thought that was!


End file.
